On the north side of the rock we visited some half-artificial, half-natural galleries, from whence scores of grim muzzled guns of heavy calibre command the Neutral Ground, which, so far as England controls it, is also entirely undermined, ready to be sprung upon the approach of an enemy on the land side. On our winding way to the summit, or signal station, we often found the path lined with asphodel and palmitos, while at the very top, where the signal sergeant has a small house, was a pretty sheltered garden of pansies, tulips, pinks, and roses, daintily arranged by some woman's hand. The remarkable view from this elevation was of vast extent, and truly magnificent; especially to seaward, where the straits were plentifully sprinkled with the white wings of commerce, full-rigged ships assuming the proportions of sea-gulls, and steamers only visible by the dark line of smoke trailing in their wake. At the foot of the rock, on the Spanish side, lay the town, a thick mass of yellow, white, and red houses; and nestling near the shore was quite a fleet of shipping, looking like maritime toys. The mountain ranges of Ceuta and Andalusia, on opposite continents, were mingled with soft, overshadowing clouds, while over our heads was a glorious dome of turquoise blue such as no temple reared by man could imitate.
One of the few fragments of antiquity, which meets the eye of the tourist at Gibraltar, is the remains of the ancient Moorish castle located on the west side, about half way up the steep acclivity of the fortifications. A crumbling wall extends, after a crooked fashion, down from the main structure towards the shore. Where everything else is so trim and orderly, this famous remnant of the barbaric ages seems strangely out of place; but it would be a positive sacrilege to remove it. It has stood some stout blows and heavy shot in its day, and they have left their deep indentures on the moss-grown, crumbling stones. The Moors held sovereignty over the Rock for more than seven hundred years, and the old tower stands there as a sort of black-letter record of these ages. The merciless finger of Time has been more fatal to it than shot and shell.
We embarked on the small coasting steamer Leon Belge for a passage across the Straits of Gibraltar, which separate Europe from Africa, landing at Tangier, Morocco, the distance being some seventy or eighty miles. The sea is always rough between the two continents, quite as much so as in the channel between France and England. Our little craft was neither very steady nor very dry under the experience. As we drew away from the Spanish shore, the long range of Andalusian mountains stood out, compact and clear, with their snow-white summits sparkling in the bright morning sun. On the lowlands, sloping to the water's edge, the fields were robed in a soft green attire, and dotted with herds of goats and cattle. Old stone watch-towers lined the shore at regular intervals, and coast-guard houses sheltering squads of soldiers, for this region is famous as the resort of smugglers. On the opposite coast of Africa the Ceuta range grew every moment more distinct; the loftiest peaks were also mantled with snow, like the white flowing drapery of the Bedouins. Still further on, dazzlingly white hamlets enlivened the Morocco shore, with deep green tropical verdure in the background, while Ceuta attracted more than ordinary interest. It is a Spanish penal colony, surrounded by jealous, warlike Moors, slave-traders and smugglers. If we are to believe the stories told by our captain, it must be one of the most dangerous and uncivilized spots on the face of the globe.
Tangier stands on the western shore of a shallow bay, upon a sloping hill-side, but is not at all impressive as one approaches it. The windowless houses rise like cubical blocks of masonry one above another dominated by a few square towers which crown the several mosques, while here and there a consular flag floats lazily upon the air from a lofty pole. The rude zigzag wall which surrounds the city is seen stretching about it, and this is pierced by three gates which are carefully closed at night.
Cairo is Oriental, but Tangier is much more so. Here we seem at one step to have passed from modern civilization into barbarism. There is no European quarter in Tangier; every evidence of the proximity of the opposite continent disappears; the distance might be immeasurable. It is Moorish from one end to the other; the very atmosphere and prevailing odors announce it. It has little, narrow, dirty, twisted streets, through which no vehicle could pass, and only accessible for donkeys, camels, and foot passengers; there is no such thing as a wheeled vehicle in the place. The women veiled, but scantily clad in some thin white texture, move about like uneasy spirits, while one meets constantly an humbler class, clad in a short blue cotton skirt, with little naked brown babies astride of one shoulder. The men, with scarlet turbans and striped robes, lounge about with their bare heels sticking out of yellow slippers. There is no spirit of hospitality here, no welcome to be read in those frowning bearded faces. Strangers are not liked, and are only tolerated for the shekels that can be extracted or robbed from them. Now we meet a wild, tawny Arab, a straggling son of the desert, his striped abba, or white bournous, hanging in graceful folds about his straight figure; and now a Nubian with only a waistcloth. Jews with dark blue caftans and red sashes; and Jewesses in bright purple silk, with uncovered, handsome faces. Here and there is seen a Maltese or Portuguese sailor, hiding on account of some crime by which he has outraged the laws on the opposite continent. The Jews, though numerous, are hated and oppressed, being the descendants of those exiled from Europe in the Middle Ages. The variety of races which one meets in these contracted passage-ways is curious, represented by faces yellow, bronze, white, and black. Add to all the crowd of donkey-boys, camels, goats, and street peddlers, crying, bleating, blustering, and braying, and you have a modern Babel of sights and sounds such as greet the stranger in the streets of this Moorish capital.
After strolling for a while through the steep, ill-paved lanes, which were a perfect exposition of crookedness, we were brought by our guide to the house of the Belgian Consul, a curious structure in the Moorish style, more of a museum than a dwelling-house. Here, the resident official, who has long filled the post, has gathered about him a collection of articles, antique and modern; but all representative of Morocco and its surrounding countries. The collection was of warlike arms of all sorts, domestic implements, armor, dress ornaments of both sexes, saddlery, pipes, rude native pictures, precious stones, and the like; the whole forming a special historical record which would be highly valuable in any European centre. It is surprising, when one indulges in a specialty, what a valuable collection can be gathered, and of what general interest it is sure to prove. From this Oriental museum we were taken to the Governor's Palace, where we met his Excellency, sitting cross-legged on the floor of a small court, at the entrance of the ancient and dilapidated structure. He was surrounded by a dozen most rascally-looking be-turbaned councillors, who, after we had been shown over the palace, were none of them above taking a shilling fee. The building was very queerly cut up, with tiled roofs at all sorts of angles, bay windows, projecting apartments, as though hung in air, and ample space for the harem, with its bathrooms, reception rooms, and many cozy nooks and corners whose use was quite past finding out. Besides there were ugly dungeons in the basement, entirely underground, like those of the Doge's Palace at Venice; and in strong contrast to which there were courts of greenery, where the thick, glossy leaves of the orange-trees set off the fragrant blossoms in a most artistic manner, and where the rank, neglected, undergrowth but half hid what must in former times have been a beautiful flower garden. There was still a heavy myrtle border, and here and there a sweet little flower struggling for existence. The denizens of the harem must once have tended and petted these flowers; but the cold, stone-latticed apartments were all vacant now, the floors damp and slippery with moss and dirt. Desolation was clearly written upon the walls.
This Governor's Palace is anything but a palace now. A portion of the building was improved as a dwelling for his Excellency, who sat soberly and silently discussing his long-stemmed pipe with Oriental indifference, as we came through the outer court on our departure. In visiting the several divisions of the palace, there had been found one section where the keys were missing, and this led to some delay while the custodian tried to procure them, the door being finally forced open by a slight physical effort. On coming out a number of rusty keys were observed upon the wall, causing us to remark that the missing one might be among them; whereupon the guide told us that these were of a different character,—keys brought from Spain when the Moors were expelled thence, and now held sacred as heir-looms. This was only a casual remark, but yet one which came back to us with special emphasis, as will by and by be explained.
As we were about to mount our donkeys a dignified individual took the guide, with whom he was evidently acquainted, one side for a moment. He would have been noticeable anywhere as a man of character, a typical Moor. Mixed as the population of Tangier is, still one easily individualizes the several races, and above all cannot fail to admire the noble, manly specimens of Moorish blood. They are naturally broad, yet light, with figures faultlessly straight without stiffness; the arms are set well back and are carried with peculiar grace, while a general dignity of bearing is always observable. The eyes are large and receding, the nose aquiline, features regular, with a rather large mouth and brilliantly fine teeth. We could not but look critically at the Moor who was engaged for the moment with our guide, for he was a good representative of that proud race which in its glory built palaces like the Alhambra, and such mosques as that at Cordova.
Our leisure moments here were passed in strolling through the queer native bazars; examining the mosques, from the towers of which at sunset we heard the Muezzin call to prayer; and in visiting the slave market, just outside of the city walls, where business is prosecuted though not so extensively as heretofore. These slaves are mostly prisoners of war, sold by native chieftains in Guinea to Morocco merchants, who drive them, chained together in long strings, from market to market until disposed of for the harems or as laborers. The sales take place always on the Sabbath, regarded as a sort of holiday. The average price of the women and girls is from fifty to sixty dollars, according to age and good looks. The men vary much in price, frequently selling at much lower figures, according to the demand for labor. About the large open space near the slave mart were congregated groups of camels and their Bedouin owners, who had just arrived from the interior, bringing native goods, with dried fruits, to market, forming an assembly such as can only be found on the borders of the desert, and which, indeed, would be utterly out of place except beneath the glow and shimmer of an African sun.